


Muse

by ArchOfImagine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist!Sam, Brief Mentions of Underage, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Art, Language, M/M, wincest reversebang, without a specific age given
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6732535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchOfImagine/pseuds/ArchOfImagine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam thought art school was everything he wanted -- turns out, great art comes from having a good muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Wincest ReverseBang.](http://wincestreversebang.tumblr.com/) Inspired by art by casterelle. (Link to come)

\--- **Twelve Months Ago…** \---

The envelope was eight-and-a-half by eleven inches and _thick._ Carrying the weight of his future.

He didn’t open it right away. _Couldn’t._ Sure, it was larger than the other envelopes in the pile on his desk — the ones that spoke of rejection in glorified terms — but that just meant that _this_ rejection was a bit wordier. 

Six days after he pulled the envelope out of the mailbox, he finally had the nerve to open it. Upending the thing, he watched a collection of pamphlets fall out onto the scraped wood of his secondhand desk. Laying on top, was the crisp white letter, complete with regal (was that a lion crest?) letterhead and formal greeting.

_Dear Mr. Samuel H. Winchester…_

He skimmed the letter all the way through, before going back and rereading just to confirm what he was seeing.

_It is with great pleasure that we offer you a spot at the Alexandria Academy of Arts…_

“I got in.” Holy shit. “I got in!”

“Keep it down in there! Some of us are trying to sleep,” a deep voice growled from the room next door. Dad, of course, sleeping away his day before he got up to go work the nightshift at the mill. 

The thought of John Winchester had his blood running cold and the acceptance letter fluttering out of his hands. Art had been a bad word in their house for most of Sam’s life. His talent had been inherited from his mother — and was a stark reminder of what John no longer had in his life, after her death. So Sam kept journals full of drawings stuffed at the back of his closet, and a portfolio of paintings slid under his mattress. 

But school… school was another thing altogether. How was he going to explain moving a thousand miles away to go to _art school_? Looking at his feet, he stared at the paper laying on the floor, before looking to the dresser where he had a stash of allowance money stuffed behind his socks.

\--- **Present** \---

It was going on the tenth month, when Dean finally caught a break. In a beat up old Chevy, he took the 495 heading from Maryland into Virginia. _Two more exits._

He saw the sign that he had been watching for. A helpful piece of sheet metal saying ‘Alexandria Academy of Arts, next exit.’

… And he kept driving.

An hour south of D.C., he stopped and found a motel in a town called Stafford that seemed to house all the middle-class workers from the city. 

“How many nights, Sugar?” the woman behind the desk asked, southern accent dancing along the edge of her words.

If he didn’t have the balls to actually stop in Alexandria, he might as well spend one night and head home… “A week, please.”

The woman popped a bubble from the gum she was chewing and typed something into the computer as he slid his debit card across the table.

“You here on vacation? Visiting family?”

Dean frowned, eyes moving over to the display of pamphlets about local attractions. “Something like that.”

The room wasn’t much to write home about. Dean carried a worn duffle bag full of equally worn clothes into the small dusty space and threw his stuff on the dresser before starting to peel out of his clothing. It was hot in the room — air heavy with humidity, and one look at the old air conditioner told him he probably wasn’t going to have much luck with that one.

Sleeping on top of the covers, then. 

_”Why, Sammy?”_

_“Dean… I can’t be like you and dad. I’m sorry. I just… I want to be something more than this town. I want to do more with my life than live paycheck to paycheck.”_

_“There’s nothing wrong with earning an honest wage, Sam.”_

_“God, you even sound like him. Why do you keep drinking the Kool-Aid? This wasn’t what you wanted in life, either! Remember when you used to dream of designing houses? I’m not the only one that inherited mom’s art talent, Dean. Don’t think I didn’t see your drawings.”_

_“Sam—”_

_“And now you’re what? A glorified grease monkey?”_

_“Stop! Okay? Stop being an asshole, Sam. Dad and I have been keeping food on the table and a roof over your head, so just stop treating us like we’re not as good as you, just because we didn’t go to college! The fact that you’re even able to go, has a lot to do with everything Dad and I have done for you…”_

_“Yeah? You think the fact that I got into one of the best art schools in the country on a full scholarship had_ anything _to do with you and dad making $20,000 a year? Yeah fucking right. If anything, the fact that our family was so fucking poor and needy worked to my advantage.”_

_“Well if that’s how you feel then just_ go! _Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, you ungrateful little prick. And you know what? Don’t come back here either. If you’re gonna treat us like the fucking dogshit on the bottom of your shoe, then we don’t fucking need you here!”_

Dean’s eyes blinked open and he stared at the water-stained ceiling of his motel room. He could still feel the pain in his chest, watching his brother walk away from him. The immediate regret of saying such harsh words to the brother he had always cherished so deeply. 

He had spent the last ten months crafting the perfect apology, yet he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to deliver it without chickening out.

\---

There was nothing worse than a blank canvas.

Sam stood in his watercolor studio class and stared at the large canvas in front of him. His first few months at art school had been amazing. Landscapes done in twisted streams of acrylic blues and greens and browns. Still-lifes that practically glistened with the juices of fruit ready to be eaten.

And then… then his instructor asked him to paint a portrait and his brain froze.

Traditionally there would be a model for all of them to creatively use in their paintings.

But, _no._ His instructor wanted them to work off of memory and paint someone from their own lives.

_”Fuck.”_ He mumbled under his breath.

“Problems, Mr. Winchester?”

Turning, Sam looked to where his professor was standing over his shoulder and staring at the still blank canvas. At least the other students seemed to be working on their projects. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he turned away from the canvas to face his teacher. “I don’t know who to paint.”

“Okay.” The man nodded and motioned across the room. “Tara is painting her parents.” Sam imagined a painting of John and Mary Winchester and quickly shook his head. That would never inspire creativity. “Alright. Luke is working on a painting of his first love.” Sam frowned, but the teacher continued. “He said that before he came to school, he had notebooks filled with drawings of his high school sweetheart. I’m sure you had a notebook of your first works — think about who filled those pages and draw that person.”

The man smiled, before walking away, moving to help the next student. 

_Shit._

Sam knew exactly who filled the pages of his drawing notebooks from high school. _Dean._

Could he really paint his brother, though? Without the pain of rejection that he had felt for twelve months since he told Dean where he was going to college?

Packing up his things, Sam pulled the empty canvas off of the easel and decided whatever he was going to paint, was best done in the comfort of his tiny studio apartment.

\---

Sam was back home for a couple of hours when a knock sounded on his door. His apartment — a tiny space above the home of an elderly woman — wasn’t much to write home about, and since he wanted to respect Mrs. Laratie's peace and quiet, he hardly ever invited people over. Which meant the person at the door was either her, asking him to come down for a warm meal, or the neighbor next door wondering if he had seen her cat.

He pulled the door open, ready to tell his way-too-friendly landlord that he had already eaten, and was shocked when he took in the man standing on the other side of the door.

“Dean.”

A smile broke out on his brother’s face. “Hey, Sammy.”

Despite all the nasty words that they had heaved at each other, Sam felt his heart clench. He stepped forward, not hesitating for a second to pull his brother into a tight hug. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

After the hug ended, Sam stepped out of the way to let Dean into his apartment. Dean glanced around at the furniture that looked like it was out of a 1950’s catalog, before looking back at Sam. “Nice digs. I assume you’ve married an 80-year-old woman?”

Sam rolled his eyes, closing the door and leaning against it awkwardly. “Actually we’re just living together.” His eyes followed Dean around the small space. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

“I uh… I left.” 

Dean walked towards the little nook where, instead of setting up a bed, Sam had made a small art space. Sam could just make out the hint of lines sketching out Dean’s form on his canvas, and felt his stomach roll. “Left?” he asked, a little louder than necessary in hopes of bringing his brother’s attention back to the heart of the apartment.

Not taking the bait, Dean stepped up to the easel and tilted his head as he looked at the canvas. “Left dad. Packed up everything I had worth keeping and drove away. After you left, he became such a raging asshole that it was too much.” Dean turned to stare at Sam. Even from across the room, Sam could see the visible motion of Dean swallowing nervously. “You were right. And… I’m sorry.”

Considering how often the Winchester men were emotionally constipated — it was weird to hear Dean so easily admit that he was _sorry._ For a moment, he thought he was being duped. Sam stepped closer to his brother. “You left?” he whispered, uncertainty seeping through his words.

“I left.” 

Sam scratched at the back of his neck. “And now?”

“Well, I’m around for a while. In the area. I figured we could… hang out.”

There was more to his words, of course. Sam could hear the thoughts that Dean wasn’t able to articulate on his own.

_Will this work. Will you and I work…_

\---

The next day was Friday, and since Sam didn’t have classes, he invited Dean over. The night before they had spent a couple hours talking — discussing dad and how things had gone to shit after Sam left — before Dean said that he needed to head back to his motel.

The unfinished painting in the corner of the room had never once been mentioned the night before, but as soon as Dean was back in the apartment, Sam’s luck ran out. 

In the middle of making tuna sandwiches for lunch, Sam heard Dean’s boots crossing the floor, followed by a pause and then… “What are you drawing?”

He flinched, unsure of how to explain to his brother about the painting in progress. “It’s a uhh… portrait. For my watercolor class. That’s just the base outline.”

A glance over his shoulded showed Dean with his head tilted once more. Sam imagined the canvas… the lean body stretched out over the hood of a car. There were a few things that were unmistakable about the painting: the Chevy emblem on the front of the car, the short and spiky hair… and the dick, laying against a well-toned thigh.

Part of him expected teasing. Something resembling: ‘so you’re drawing dicks now, huh, Sammy?’

But no. Dean just stared.

“Lunch is ready.” Sam quickly washed his hands and turned away from the kitchenette area. Dean still hadn’t moved, so he stepped closer — taking cautious movements.

“Your uhm…” Dean scratched the back of his neck and motioned to the painting, obviously avoiding Sam’s gaze. “Your proportions are a bit off?”

“They are?” He frowned, stepping closer and looking the drawing over. It was still the base sketch, but he thought he had gotten it pretty close. “Where?”

Dean licked his lips, “The uh… _dick._ ”

Sam looked at the nervous expression on Dean’s face, before looking back at the drawing. He could understand how that part could be wrong — he had based it off of his own penis, without knowledge of what the real thing looked like. He shivered, remembering all of the moments as a teenager when he had stared at his brother and felt that _dirtywrong_ feeling of… lust. In a rush, he backed away from the drawing and went back to the kitchen. “Doesn’t really matter. What did you want to drink?”

“Sam.”

“I’ve got water. Tea. A couple of Diet Cokes…”

_”Sam.”_

His emotions hit and he grasped onto the edge of the counter, willing himself not to _feel like that_ ever again. “I know. I’m sorry. We promised…” his words cut off for a moment as the emotions grew stronger. “I haven’t… I kept my word. It’s just the teacher wanted me to draw my _first love._ The person that inspired my muse the most when I was younger. How could it not be you, Dean?”

\--- **Two Years Ago…** \---

“I’ll get the stakes nailed in, you finish setting up the mattress and blankets.”

Sam took a deep breath of warm air and smiled at the scent of pine trees and fresh lake water. It was spring break and as a surprise, Dean had scheduled a few days off at the dealership so that he could take Sam camping. They hadn’t been to Lake Winamuck since Sam was ten and a boy scout. 

One last glance at the gentle waves of the lake, and he was ducking into the tent to get their air mattress setup. It was going to be great. Three whole days of just him and Dean hanging out, fishing, hiking… sharing stories around a campfire. No dad. No responsibilities. 

After he finished setting up the inside of the tent, he stepped back out to where Dean had started making a fire. The sun had already dipped below the horizon — they had gotten up to the tent site a lot later than planned, since Dean had to work late. 

He sat on a log beside the fire and happily enjoyed every moment as they ate roasted hot dogs and enjoyed the sounds of nature. 

“Better hit the hay, Sammy. You know how the fish only bite first thing in the morning.”

Sam nodded, and after the both headed out to piss one last time before bed, they crawled into the tent. Sam got his pillow situated on the left side of the mattress, and kicked his shoes outside of the tent before stripping out of his jeans and t-shirt and tossing them to where his bag laid in the corner. 

Dean was doing much the same thing, and after a couple minutes of rustling, they were both laying on the mattress, tucked into the blankets. Their sleeping bags had been full of holes, older than Sam was — probably, so they had opted to grab all of the extra comforters and quilts that they had in the house, instead.

“Dean,” Sam whispered into the darkness.

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“I was just wondering…” he felt his stomach flip-flop with nerves. “Since no ones around… if you would do that thing?”

“I know it’s wrong. And you said we’re not supposed to… but… just this once? Then I promise to never mention it again.”

After a moment, the bed shifted as Dean rolled over to face Sam. He was closer, close enough that Sam could feel Dean’s breath on his neck. 

He felt the kiss first. Gentle and in just the right spot. Brushing beneath his ear, down the side of his neck. “Just this once, Sammy,” Dean breathed out.

A moment later, Dean’s long fingers tickled their way down Sam’s bare stomach, before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. Sam’s dick had already been half hard at just the idea, but the feeling of his brother’s hand wrapping around his length was enough to get him to full sail. “Shit,” he hissed, eyes slipping shut. 

The kisses continued on his neck as Dean used the precome from the tip of his dick to slick his hand’s movements up and down the shaft. 

“Feel good, Sammy?”

“ _So good._ ”

\--- **Present** \---

They had never done more than that. Sam had never kissed his brother. Had never _touched_ his brother. But when he woke up with a raging hard-on, he knew that it was because he had dreamt about his brother stroking his cock. It was a memory, a forbidden fruit, that would forever haunt him.

“Sam.”

There was the barest hint of a plea in Dean’s voice. Sam took a deep breath, before turning around. 

He gasped at the sight. Standing across the room, his brother was completely naked, clothes piled at his feet. Dean had been right — Sam’s proportions were off. “What are you—”

“Don’t artist’s work better with an actual model?”

_Shit._

“Dean…”

“Where do you want me, Sam?”

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to focus on painting when his brother was standing there looking like a Greek God… Sam made it across the floor in four easy strides, pressing closer to Dean and reaching out to brush a tentative finger along his brother’s chest… moving down to circle a nipple.

“Can I kiss you first?”

Dean smirked, green eyes twinkling with mischief. “You can, but I must warn you… you might not have time for art until a lot later…”

Looking up, Sam smiled. “Good thing it isn’t due until next week.”


End file.
